


Symphony

by FiveTail, SirKai



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Fantasy, Magic, Music, Necromancy, OC, Original Characters - Freeform, Romance, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2011-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:11:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiveTail/pseuds/FiveTail, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirKai/pseuds/SirKai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story written for KiloMonster's birthday, earlier this year! It utilizes her original fantasy/sci-fi universe and original characters. Written in conjunction with FiveTail, this story focuses on the bittersweet memories of the villainous elf, Dr. Nigellus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symphony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KiloMonster](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=KiloMonster).



The doctor strolls through the gated entrance. His boots squelch into soggy earth as he marches up the muddy hill of the cemetery, vision locked at a specific tombstone; carved from granite and upright near the trunk of a leafless maple tree. He can’t see past the dim lantern light, but he doesn’t need to; Nigellus knows which grave it was. The elaborate funeral service was only earlier that day, after all.

Approaching the gravestone, Nigellus notes how much it seems to resemble a bell in shape. He carefully places his flickering lantern and black violin case against the tree’s trunk, and kneels down in front of the soaking tombstone. His nimble fingers pluck his black, wide-rimmed hat from his head and flicking away the pooled water and gently sitting the hat on top of the grave marker.

Nigellus peers into the polished granite, barely able to read the name etched into it. He drags his fingers across the inscription, feeling every groove and notch of the name through his thin white gloves.

Rain slapping his bare face, Nigellus unhinges the locks on his violin case and withdraws the instrument and bow. He locks his knees and ankles at just the right angles, and writhes slightly at the pressure of the chin rest. Water splashes and runs along the bridge belly as Nigellus rests the bow atop the strings.

He inhales a deep breath, envisioning his audience just beneath the dirt and soil.

\---

The empty seats to either side of her cast a spotlight on her presence. Her hands were cupped together in her lap as she stared ahead. She didn’t seem to notice the other half-dozen performers on stage. Every time Nigellus opened his eyes to glance into the crowd, she was fixated only on him. His eyes would drift; a faint smile would spread across his face as he played his violin in unison with the other troupe members, and he’d begin a subtle hum barely audible from within his throat.

That night, she was the only audience he had.

The symphonic music faded, and each musician marched to the edge of the stage (though the old portly pianist was, as always, last to stand at attention) bowing in unison at the dozens of clapping hands. Nigellus briefly stared into the sheen of his polished black shoes before returning to face the thinning applause of the audience. His eyes drifted over to the dark-skinned woman dressed in her best white evening gown. Even she was clapping happily.

“Hey, Mathis,” Nigellus whispered to the tall cello player at his right, nudging the man with his elbow.

“What is it?” Mathis hissed.

“Hold this.” Eyes fixed forward, Nigellus shoved his violin and bow into the cello player’s free arm.

“Hey, what the- Nigellus!”

The violinist hopped off the stage and strolled up the carpeted aisle. He ignored the strange looks and murmurs of the audience as he sidled into the third row from the front. He didn’t care to decipher what anyone was thinking of him.

His pace slowed as he approached her. She wasn’t smiling anymore. Instead, she was wearing that worrying expression he always found to be so adorable; the way her jaw hung slightly, and her widened eyes emphasized just how beautiful they were...

Nigellus’s eyes narrowed. “You came, even though I told you not to.”

“Of course I did,” she said, leaning forward in the seat with an arched brow and a light sneer. “You didn’t honestly think I’d let a few nasty looks get in the way, did you?”

Smirking, Nigellus glanced nervously down at his chest; he could already feel the blush spreading across his face, and it took him a few moments to stabilize his uneven breathing.

Suddenly, he knelt in front of her and carefully plucked her hand from her lap as he dug into the front of his jacket.

“Nigellus, what are you-”

The violinist pulled his hand from his front pocket and slowly guided a gold band onto the dark skin of her ring finger. The outside of the band was carved with a pattern of braided grooves, resembling a pair of intertwining serpents.

Nigellus held his breath as she stared into the crevices of the ring. Her finger twitched as she inched her head forward slightly, peering closer at the band.

Seeing her writhe, something in Nigellus sparked his entire body into motion. He clasped his hand against her cheek and kissed her. He took a moment, eyes closed, to appreciate the depth and height of her lips pressed onto his own, and the roundness of her cheek through his glove. His hand gently trailed down her neck, absorbing the subtle pulses of blood traveling through her throat.

Their lips parted, though still only inches from each other. He rested his nose against hers’, and gazed into her watering eyes. His thumb lightly rubbed against her soft chin.

“Marry me.”

\---

“Excuse me, waiter.” Nigellus raised his hand at a passing suit-clad young man with a menu tucked under his arm. The pale waiter continued strolling past without looking back. Nigellus dropped his hand onto the table, face contorting into a pout.

His wife giggled at him from across the flickering candlelight.

“This is funny to you?” Nigellus asked. He raised his nose slightly.

“I think it’s quite fascinating, actually,” his wife replied.

“It’s downright insulting is what it is...” Nigellus said, leaning back in his velvet patted chair and folding his arms. His eyes began drifting around the restaurant at nothing in particular.

“Oh come on, this should be a happy evening, Doctor Mayers.”

“Yes yes, it should be, but-” Nigellus reached out into the aisle to wave nearby waitress. She didn’t seem to notice him. Nigellus sighed and stared into the polished oak tabletop, repeatedly massaging two fingers across his temples.

“You know you really shouldn’t worry so much if you can help it,” his wife advised. She rested her chin into her palm and drummed her fingers over her cheek. “Your new line of work will keep that plenty covered.”

Nigellus caught her flashing a reassuring smile at him. He was always astonished by how she never seemed bothered by any of it, not even the threats.

“Well, I’m glad to know that you’re enjoying yourself,” Nigellus groaned. “But my appetite is quickly outweighing my patience. I may just bite the next person to cross by.”

“Well, here’s your chance.”

Nigellus’ head perked up. He glanced over his shoulder at the two approaching musicians, both in tuxedos. The older, graying man in front was carrying a saxophone. The younger one following behind sported black hair, and a violin lined with shimmering gold propped against his shoulder. He was impatiently tapping the bow against his thigh.

Nigellus raised his hand to catch the violinist’s attention. “Pardon sir, we have a request.”

The saxophone player stopped a moment to take a look at the two seated guests before snickering and continuing across the main floor of the restaurant.

The violinist stared at the couple for a moment, as if he were debating with himself. He laid the bow across the table and leaned over the candle’s flame. “We have proper guests to attend to,” he said to Nigellus’s wife. Then he turned to Nigellus. “Also, I’d appreciate it if you two didn’t touch anything. Who knows what diseases-”

Nigellus swept his hand along tabletop, snatching the bow and pressuring the end of it into the man’s cheek like a knife.

“Nigellus!”

“Relax, dear, I’m only placing an order,” Nigellus said to his wife with a wink. He stepped into the aisle, jabbing the bow even harder into the musician’s whitening face. “We’ll be having two glasses of Scarlet Ruse, one bowl of your black forest chowder, and two veal kabobs, rare.” Nigellus lightly withdrew the bow from the man’s face. The musician sighed as he brought his hand to rub at the newly bruising mark on his cheek.

“And don’t forget the rolls!” Nigellus finished, smacking the broad side of the bow on top of the man’s head and yanking the violin away from his shoulder. “I’ll be taking this as well.”

The violinist began to raise a fist in protest. “You demented-”

“Sir, I have placed an order and we do not have all night,” Nigellus interrupted. He waved the man away with his elbow as he eased the chin rest of the violin against his neck. “Hop to it! A gentleman never disappoints a lady, and I expect to have our meal ready by the time I am finished playing!”

The violinist backed away slowly, expression wide like he’d seen a ghost.

“Well, that was awfully spirited,” his wife complimented. She laid her chin against her knuckles and smiled up at Nigellus.

“What can I say? I’m in a spirited mood tonight.” Nigellus beamed down at her. “So, what would you like to hear?”

“Something tells me you already have something in mind,” she teased.

Nigellus chuckled. “Am I that transparent?”

“Only when you get so excited.”

“I was thinking Sheradin’s Fifth Fleet. It was the piece he played during the fall of the Eastern Assembly. It translates exceptionally well to strings.”

“Sheradin? Are you certain that’s not too grandiose?”

Nigellus carefully tested the bow along the strings of the violin.

“Are you certain it’s not grandiose enough?”

\---

 

“I can’t do it,” the little girl sighed in frustration, her shoulders slacking. “I’ll never play as good as you, papa.”

Nigellus’s expression softened.

“Here. Let’s try something a little different.”

He reached for the metronome sitting on the tabletop, and gently held the pendulum in place. The room fell silent, freed from the echo of rhythmic ticking.

Nigellus then moved to kneel behind his young daughter.

“Now,” he began, “I’m going to let you in on a little secret.”

“What kind of a secret?” she asked, brightening up.

He lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “A very special secret. Something I’ve never told anyone else before.”

The suggestion made her eyes widen in curiosity. “I promise I won’t tell.”

“Good.” He touched her wrist and raised her small arm to its former position, to raise her quarter-violin back up against her shoulder. “The secret is, playing an instrument is made up of two parts. One of them is knowing how.”

She leaned back against him almost unconsciously, matching his quiet voice. “What’s the other part, papa?”

He guided her opposite hand; she placed her chin on the rest as the fine white hairs of the bow touched the strings.

“The other part is feeling how.”

She turned her head to look back at him. “But I can feel it! My shoulder shakes a little when I play because it’s so loud.”

“Not from the outside, bumblebee. From the inside.” He pulled himself away from her to rest a hand against the side of his chest. “From here.”

“My heart?”

“Correct.” Nigellus leaned forward and assumed his former position, his hands cradling hers, positioning them properly against the violin. “Now, forget the sheet music in front of you. Forget the click, click, clicks of your metronome. Close your eyes...”

The girl gave a sharp sigh, and nodded. Her fingers moved instinctively to the starting position against the fingerboard, the familiar spots on the plastic still slightly faded from where the guidance stickers had once been.

“...and feel.”

At first, she attempted to resume the tempo with which she had been practicing: monotonous, half-second-long sounds, fingers robotically skipping along invisible points on the violin neck--yet, Nigellus kept her hands in place, not allowing her to continue past the first note.

Instead, he lead her to start again, to draw the bow across the innermost string, steady and careful, much slower than the routine she’d been practicing that morning. Her brow furrowed in concentration as the deep G resonated through the air. His grasp on her hands relaxed as the moments passed and the length of the bow traced the string, until she was playing it on her own--one, single note.

Her expression eased.

Once she’d reached the end of the bow, she quickly lowered her violin and spun around to face her father, her eyes bright as she smiled.

“Papa, papa! I felt it!” She took her bow-wielding hand and touched her chest. “Right here! Just like you said!”

He chuckled aloud, tipping forward to rest a kiss on her forehead.

“Good work, bumblebee. I’m so proud of you.”

\---

The ground shifts.

The melody of Nigellus’s memories are tangled within the notes pouring from his violin, both drowning within the depths of the midnight rain. His arms fall slack to the side of him; the tip of his bow digs into the mud, the bottom of his violin scrapes the dirt.

When the ground moves again, beating with the pulse of the dead, Nigellus tosses his instrument aside, and falls to his knees on top of the grave before him.

The earth is cold around his fingertips.

Clumps of wet dirt and grass pack beneath his nails as he scoops mounds of mud out of his way, digging to reach just beneath the surface. As the pulse of the ground intensifies, so does his haste; he digs as an animal, his eyes widen in the dark, his lips curl into a smile of relief, of nervous anticipation, of wholly unbridled pride.

He hisses his breath between gritted teeth, each breath more urgent and excited than the last.

A twitching, frigid hand reaches for his own. He embraces the grasp like that of an old friend’s, and he grins broadly as the spidery fingers wrap around his wrist.

Now he knows he can have them back.


End file.
